


it's the fear and not the ghost that leaves me haunted

by spiraldistortion (bisexualthorin)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blood, Breathplay, Choking, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, Double Penetration, Face-Fucking, Frottage, Gangbang, Ghost Sex, Ghosts, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sex Leitner, Trans Jonah Magnus, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Humiliation, canon-typical Jonah bastardry, fun fact: ghosts don't have refractory periods, no beta; we die like men and our ghosts get summoned by Jonah Magnus for a fun n spooky gangbang, now with art!, only in that Jonah uses its powers for sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:07:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23635816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualthorin/pseuds/spiraldistortion
Summary: There exists a certain book rumored to bestow upon the reader the power to call forth the spirits of their choosing and bind them for a time to the corporeal world. Though there is yet any solid proof of this, such a claim is far too delicious to ignore. And now that Jonah Magnus has the volume in question in his possession, he endeavors to find out. He never was afraid to get his hands dirty, when the situation called for it.
Relationships: Barnabas Bennett/Jonah Magnus, Barnabas Bennett/Jonah Magnus/Jonathan Fanshawe/Mordechai Lukas, Jonathan Fanshawe/Jonah Magnus, Mordechai Lukas/Jonah Magnus
Comments: 24
Kudos: 136
Collections: Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. I'm going to hell for this. 
> 
> Huge thanks to the Eye Horror server for putting up with my incessant ranting about this fic and for cheering me on. Special thanks to Jay, Mike, and Kit for being the best and supporting me in my terrible Jonah Magnus crimes.
> 
> The poem in the fic is from _Spirits of the Dead_ , originally known as _Visits from the Dead_ , by Edgar Allan Poe.
> 
> Title is from Not the Ghost by The Crane Wives.
> 
> Also, stay tuned! Art of this fic is incoming, and I'll add it as a chapter to this fic once it's finished. You don't want to miss it!

Jonah Magnus is a vain man.

He’ll readily admit this about himself, as he hardly considers it a flaw. He slides a slim paperback onto his desk before turning to the mirror against the wall, appraising himself as he shrugs the jacket off his lithe shoulders. He brings a finger up to adjust his glasses on the bridge of his nose and gives his reflection a pleased little smile. And really, can it be called vanity if one’s high opinion of oneself is justified?

Perhaps his one true flaw—the one that has brought him both fortune and grief in kind—is his burning thirst for knowledge. He runs a finger down the spine of the slender volume before him on the desk. _Tamerlane and Other Poems_ , an exceedingly rare little book from a no-name publisher across the Atlantic. Securing this answer to his latest question had cost him quite a bit. He had to call on more than a few of his connections to find any leads on the book at all, and from there, a non-trivial amount of money to actually acquire it. But it would all be worth it, if the talk was true. Rumor had it that reading a certain passage would allow one to call up the spirits of one’s choosing. Jonah smiles wryly at the thought—he is rather singularly talented at collecting ghosts.

To his knowledge, no one has yet to successfully complete the ritual, casting some amount of doubt onto the veracity of the claims. He suspects, however, that this is due to a lack of thorough commitment, rather than an absence of power in the text. He opens the book, flicking through the pages lightly until he reaches the passage in question. _Visits of the Dead_. How dreadfully appropriate. He runs his fingers over the words, a shiver running through him at the tingle of power beneath his fingertips. Just as he suspected—he is so very rarely wrong.

He turns and walks over to a large, mahogany chiffonier, opening its doors and withdrawing an ornate box from within. He sets it on the desk next to the book and strokes a hand over the top, fingers gently caressing the lid, before he opens it up. Inside lay the bones of Barnabas Bennett, retrieved some years ago from the domain of the Forsaken. He brushes his hand over the skull lovingly, trailing a finger down to trace around an empty eye socket, and sighs wistfully. If this all goes to plan, he could be seeing his dear Barnabas quite soon indeed. He reaches past the skull to pluck up a radius, giving in to the urge run a hand over the bone, recalling the way he’d gripped those arms in passion, back when the bones had flesh, back when Barnabas was alive.

He perches himself on the corner of the desk and reaches past the book for the sharp ceremonial dagger, silver handle inlaid with emeralds shining bright like eyes in the light of the full moon. He cradles the bone in his lap, bracing one end against his chest as he brings his knife to it. He begins to carve, digging the point of the blade deeply into bone as he etches swirling, curving lines in the shape of eyes. He works fervently, silent but for the steady scrape of his dagger and the whisper of his own breath.

He sets down the blade, tilting the bone away from him to admire his work. The pale light of the moon casts the contours into stark relief, the pupils gouged into the lines of the eyes yawning dark and deep against the surrounding white. An offering of the dead, something with which to tether the specters to the corporeal world for the evening. As for an offering of the living—Jonah sets down the bone and picks up the dagger, sliding it across his palm in one quick motion. Warm blood wells to the surface, and he closes his fist, allowing his blood to trickle down into a crystal phial on the desk. For a ritual such as this, he is more than willing to offer a small piece of himself.

He slides lightly back onto his feet and rummages through his desk for a strip of linen with which to staunch the flow of blood. Anticipation rising, he works quickly, wrapping his palm with efficient movements. A drop of blood clings to his thumb, and he idly licks it away as he surveys his work before him: three arcing sweeps of white chalk, near perfect circles that intersect at the middle, bright against the dark wood floor of his study. He gathers the book and offerings in his arms and kneels at the edge of the sigil, careful to not disrupt the crisp chalk lines. He leans forward, gingerly laying the offerings inside the juncture of the three circles, bone of the dead and blood of the living together. As he does so, he hears a barely audible snap, feels a tension in the air, and the chalk lines of the circles begin to glow a faint, ghostly silver.

Excitement runs through him, fierce and rampant, and he settles back onto his heels, grabbing the book and holding it out in front of him. The lines now thrum with energy, pulsing heavily, as if something moved below them, trapped under the floorboards, waiting to break free. Clearing his throat, he begins to read aloud:

_Be silent in that solitude,  
Which is not loneliness—for then  
The spirits of the dead who stood  
In life before thee are again  
In death around thee—and their will  
Shall overshadow thee: be still._

Jonah scarcely remembers to breathe as he kneels before the circles, holding himself as still as he can. The phial of his blood lights up, as do the eyes carved into the bone, both glowing a bright, incandescent white. The light floods from the offerings, pooling around them and spreading out to the chalk lines of the sigil, flowing outward from the center until all of the lines are connected, pulsing and bright. He closes the book and sets it aside, fingers nerveless and clumsy with exhilaration, as he sees the air within the circles begin to shimmer and change. He fists his hands into the fabric of his trousers as the radiance reaches a blinding crescendo, and though his eyes water in pain, he keeps them open and uncovered to see.

Slowly, the light dims, revealing three spectral shapes beginning to materialize in each of the circles. An elated gasp falls from his lips as the forms begin to solidify, translucent and silvery-white against the dark of the surrounding room. His eyes travel first to the figure on the left: the tall, thin frame of Dr. Jonathan Fanshawe, who met his grisly fate a mere few years ago. He turns his gaze to the next, and takes in the broad, muscular bulk of Mordechai, the Lukas family patriarch, who saw his end not one-year past. And lastly, the round face and soft eyes of his dearest Barnabas, dead now for over a decade, lost to the fog of the Forsaken.

He greedily drinks in the sight of them for a moment before rising to his feet, smoothing down the front of his waistcoat and cravat as he straightens. As the glow of the circle fades and flickers out, the figures within begin to move, looking around and at themselves curiously.

“What is this?” Jonathan asks sharply, and Jonah is pleased to hear that his voice hasn’t changed from when he heard it last, so many years ago. He turns his head and catches sight of Jonah, his nostrils flaring and eyes narrowing in anger. “ _You_.”

Jonah smiles magnanimously and spreads his arms wide. “Indeed, it is I.”

Jonathan strides over to him menacingly and fists a hand—a hand that is, to Jonah’s immense delight, nearly as substantial as living flesh—into Jonah’s cravat, dragging him forward and onto his toes.

“You vile _twerp_ , what the hell have you done?” Jonathan asks, seething. The hand wrapped around Jonah’s cravat shakes in rage, jostling him around slightly as he just barely maintains his balance. Jonah merely shrugs his shoulders, grinning wide enough now to show teeth.

“Come now, Jonathan,” he tuts, “is it so wrong for a man to wish to see his dearest friends after so long a time apart?”

Jonathan snarls, but before he can so much as move closer to Jonah, Mordechai steps in, placing a firm hand on Jonathan’s shoulder.

“Best not,” Mordechai says evenly, looking impassively down his nose at Jonah. “Yet.”

“Ah yes, wouldn’t want to act _rashly_ now _,_ would we, Lukas?” Barnabas asks venomously, but his eyes are fixed on Jonah.

“Bennett,” Mordechai says dryly. “No hard feelings then, I presume?”

Barnabas ignores the comment, instead stepping forward and turning to Jonathan. “Perhaps we should hear the man out before we make any decisions as to his fate.” Jonathan grumbles at his words but releases his grip. Jonah clears his throat and primly straightens his cravat.

“Thank you, Barnabas. I’m glad to see that you still have that sensible head on your shoulders.” Barnabas flicks his eyes down to the box containing his bones on Jonah’s desk and then back up, looking extremely unimpressed. “Hm, well. In _spirit_ then,” Jonah concedes. Barnabas blinks at him, his face blank.

“Anyway, while I know that some of you may not have approved of the more _applied_ facets of my work,” he begins, gaze flicking over to Jonathan. He takes great pleasure at the thin, angry line of his mouth and the shaking clench of his fists at his side. “I’m sure you all can appreciate that it is sometimes necessary to get my hands dirty, so to speak.”

“Lord above, could you get to the point?” Jonathan asks, raising his eyes to the ceiling. Jonah frowns and shoots him a disapproving look, but continues.

“I have recently come into possession of a certain book rumored to have the power to summon spirits from beyond the veil and bind them, for a time, to the corporeal world,” he explains, and then gestures at the three specters before him with a flourish. “I daresay the rumors have proven quite true.”

There’s silence then, near deafening in its completeness. It holds for a beat, and then all at once, everyone speaks. 

“ _Excuse me_ , are you telling me that—”

“—I deserve some blessed _rest_ , honestly—"

“—you complete and utter _bastard_ —"

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!” Jonah says loudly over the din, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Surely there’s _something_ I could offer as a token of my appreciation for your troubles.”

The room falls silent once more. Jonah feels the weight of three sets of eyes on him and clasps his hands in front of him, looking at each man in turn with a carefully bland smile.

“It’s like that then, is it?” Jonathan asks, breaking the silence. “You summoned us here, from the dead, for—for what, a fuck?”

“ _Jonathan_ ,” Jonah scolds, glowering up at him, “there’s no need to be crass. I was simply suggesting—”

“I _know_ what you were suggesting, you horrible little man,” Jonathan snaps, stepping into Jonah’s space until they were nearly chest to chest. “And as loathe as I am to give you anything you want, so long as I’m stuck here, I might as well avail you of the only thing for which you have ever been good.” With that, Jonathan reaches forward and slams his palms against Jonah’s shoulders, knocking him backwards. Jonah stumbles and trips, falling hard onto his behind with a startled _oof_.

Jonah hears a _tsk_ from above him and looks up to see Barnabas sink to his knees beside him. He reaches forward, careful fingers sliding off his glasses and putting them aside.

“There,” Barnabas murmurs, and he shifts himself behind Jonah to gather him up in his arms, Jonah’s back flush against his chest. Icy fingers stroke down Jonah’s neck to his much-abused cravat and begin to pick at the knots, loosening it enough to slip off and cast aside. Jonah sighs and leans back against Barnabas, basking in the attention.

Barnabas noses into his hair and nimbly undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, exposing the slender, pale line of Jonah’s throat. He brings one hand up to run through Jonah’s curls, mussing them from their careful combing, and slides the other, cold and deliciously substantial, to wrap tightly over Jonah’s pulse. Jonah’s hands raise instinctually to scrabble and grasp at Barnabas’ arms, though he makes no move to pull him off.

Mordechai shoots Jonah a cool look before huffing out a laugh, crouching down and leaning over him. He makes extremely quick work of Jonah’s waistcoat and shirt—the fabric rips open under his fingers and buttons fly and roll in every direction. The indignant noise Jonah makes in response is choked down by the tight, unyielding press of Barnabas’ hand to his throat. His breath stutters into harsh gasps, and he wonders if he’ll bruise, purpling fingerprints of his past pressed into his skin like a brand. Mordechai trails a translucent fingertip down his now exposed collarbone, over the linen strips binding his chest, and Jonah pants, mouth hung open to draw in what breath he can.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jonah detects movement, and he turns his face as much as he can to see. Jonathan stalks in a circle around them, hands folded primly at the small of his back. His expression is hard as he stares down his nose at Jonah, eyes brimming with barely banked anger. Jonah shivers under the observation, at the frigid press of Barnabas’ lips just below his ear.

Jonah’s eyes flutter, his vision dark and fuzzy at the edges from the lack of air. He feels Mordechai tug roughly at his bindings, loosening their pull around his chest even as Barnabas tightens his grip around his throat. Three sets of eyes fix on him as the last length of linen slips off, baring his chest to the cold of the room. He looks up at Mordechai, through him, and sees himself reflected in the large mirror. Back arched and skin lit silver through the translucence of Mordechai’s form, Jonah looks otherworldly, like some fey creature of myth. He rakes his eyes up his own torso, the slight slope of his chest, nipples peaked against the cold, to his face, ruddy from the rush of blood, to his lips, parted and shining. Jonah drinks in the sight of himself and feels his cock throb, head spinning from the rush of arousal that hits him. Barnabas chuckles, chest shaking slightly underneath him, and Jonah flicks half-lidded eyes up to meet Barnabas’ in the mirror.

“You always were so very vain,” Barnabas murmurs into his hair, nuzzling his nose down to Jonah’s ear. Barnabas holds his gaze as he squeezes even tighter around Jonah’s throat, and there is no room left to breathe, no air left in his lungs, and his vision darkens completely for one momentary infinity before Barnabas releases him. Jonah gulps down great, shuddering breaths as Barnabas runs his hand soothingly up and down his throat, pressing lightly into the marks he left there.

Preoccupied with catching his breath, Jonah hardly notices as Mordechai begins to unbutton his trousers, absently lifting his hips when Mordechai starts to drag them down. Jonah has barely settled back against Barnabas’ chest when five lines of blazing cold scratch across his sternum down to his nipple, and he gasps sharply at the sensation. Fingers close around it in a cruel pinch, and he arches up into the touch, seeking more. In the mirror, he can see Jonathan knelt at his side, eyes flinty and fingers ruthless. Jonah watches Jonathan’s reflection, waiting to see how the man proceeds.

"I believe I told you to never contact me again,” Jonathan says, voice sharper even than the fingers working against Jonah’s chest.

“Ah,” Jonah gasps as Mordechai tugs him forward by the hips, sliding him down further in Barnabas’ lap. “But your exact words were ‘please do not write to me again.’ And you’ll notice that your invitation to this, hm, _congregation_ was not a written one.”

Jonathan stills and stares down at him with enough hatred in his eyes to make Jonah’s toes curl, the barely concealed promise of violence in them sparking heat low in Jonah’s belly.

“That is quite enough from you,” Barnabas says, and before Jonah can properly reply, he’s inundated by the cool slide of Barnabas’ fingers between his lips and the rough thrust of Mordechai’s cock inside him. Mordechai is huge, bigger than he recalled, and even with how wet he already is, the fit is impossibly tight. He clenches around the intrusion and moans around the fingers in his mouth, high and garbled.

“You always did love the sound of your own voice, you insufferable ratbag,” Jonathan says, and the bite of his voice and the pinch of his fingers are sweeter than anything Jonah has known. Jonah keeps his gaze on Jonathan, hot and steady even as Mordechai tries his level best to shake him apart from the inside out.

“Always asking your probing questions, demanding favors, expecting everyone to scramble on hands and knees for you.” Jonathan runs his hand up to Jonah’s neck, leaning down close to his face. Jonah holds his breath in anticipation. “Well,” Jonathan mutters, diggings his fingers into the reddened indentations Barnabas left behind. “You are in no position to make demands now.”

Mordechai tilts his hips on the next thrust, pressing up inside Jonah in a way that makes his eyes flutter, rips a groan from his mouth. Barnabas pushes his fingers further inside, insistent against his tongue, and Jonah’s face heats as he feels a trickle of drool spill from the corner of his lips.

“Shall I tell you what I see, Jonah?” Jonathan asks, low and salacious. He slides his hand down, a trail of biting cold over his chest, past his navel, to the apex of his thighs. Jonah shivers as slender fingers stroke his cock, the light touch a dizzying contrast to the hard snap of Mordechai’s hips. “Shall I tell you what you look like, speared on Mordechai's cock?” He pulls his hand away, and a thread of slick hangs between Jonah’s slit and Jonathan’s fingers, stretches thin until it breaks.

“A wanton. A _whore_.”

Jonathan’s words prickle over his skin, and Jonah shudders at the onslaught of sensation.

“Greedy,” Barnabas adds, voice low and intimate. He lays a gentle hand on Jonah’s jaw, thumb running over lips stretched around chill fingers, spreading the drool across his cheek. Mordechai stills, and before Jonah gets the chance to protest at the lack of movement, Mordechai grips him behind the knees and pushes his thighs down towards his chest, bending him in half. He resumes his brutal pace, grinding his hips down into Jonah’s with each thrust. Pushed and pulled between the cock buried inside him and the fingers in his mouth, Jonah feels stretched, utterly and completely full.

Something hard and frigid presses against Jonah’s hip, and he dazedly looks up between his legs to see Jonathan pressing his cock into the crease between his abdomen and thigh. Jonathan begins to thrust against him, precome and the sweat gathering on Jonah’s skin slicking the way. Barnabas pushes his fingers further, touching the back of his throat, and Jonah convulses around them.

“You never could leave well enough alone,” Jonathan says, voice tight. He grips Jonah’s leg and pushes it down until his knee almost hits his chin, tightening the squeeze of Jonah’s thigh against his cock. “Take this foolish ritual of yours,” he says disdainfully, sweeping his eyes past Jonah to the chalk circles. “Is this what you were expecting?” He punctuates his question with a jarring thrust against Jonah’s hip. “Is this what you _wanted_?”

“You used my remains for this,” Barnabas says softly, and Jonah’s breath catches at the reproach, his eyes watering at the unyielding push of fingers down his throat. He’s bucked harshly into Barnabas’ lap as Mordechai pushes into him once, twice more and fills him with a rush so cold and so _much_ that his vision whites out momentarily. Mordechai pulls out and Jonah groans at the loss, wriggling his hips uncomfortably against the emptiness. He opens his eyes to see Mordechai’s impassive gaze sweep over him, large hands squeezing his thighs, keeping him folded onto himself as Jonathan fucks against him. He moves one hand to dip a finger briefly inside Jonah, twisting cruelly, and hums.

“Loose now,” he says blandly, and wipes his hand clean on Jonah’s leg. Jonah whimpers around the fingers in his mouth as Jonathan picks up his pace.

“Perhaps I’ll finish on your chest,” Jonathan says, eyes hot and fingers digging into the skin of his leg. “Cover you in my seed, mark you the way you deserve.”

“Lovely,” Barnabas purrs against his ear, pressing teeth, no less sharp for their incorporeality, to the delicate skin of the lobe. His fingers drag against Jonah’s tongue, gagging him.

“Or would you prefer I find completion down your throat?” Jonathan asks. “You always were so hungry for it.” Jonah squirms, the rough drag of Jonathan’s cock against the tender skin of his hip edging into pain. “I rather think I’m entitled to both.” Jonathan pushes his cock once more into the crease of Jonah’s thigh, shuddering, before he backs away.

Jonah jolts as Mordechai drops his legs carelessly, letting them hit the floor with a thud. He feels Mordechai’s come start to dribble from his slit and he groans, letting his thighs fall open for Mordechai to see. Barnabas pulls his fingers, soaked in Jonah’s spit, out from between his lips and tangles them in his hair, tugging Jonah’s head back to look up at Jonathan.

Jonathan angles himself closer to Jonah’s prone body, working himself in short, fast strokes. Barnabas’s fingers tighten, keeping his head locked in place, and Jonah watches as Jonathan brings himself closer to the edge. His eyes roam over Jonathan’s body, slow and heated, taking in his narrow shoulders, the lean planes of his chest, the jump of muscle in his forearm, the curve of his cock, slender and long.

“Do _not_ look at me like that,” Jonathan snarls, furious, but his hand only moves faster over his cock, the head weeping silver fluid that drips down onto Jonah’s belly. Jonah’s lip curls into a vicious smile at Jonathan’s outburst, drinking in his anger with glee. He watches Jonathan, barely blinking, as his thighs shake before his impending orgasm. Barnabas’ other hand grips his jaw, sharp and painful, forcing him to open his mouth to catch what Jonathan gives. Jonathan hisses, his hand stuttering as his cock twitches, spurting ropes of glimmering silver over Jonah’s chest and chin. A drop hits Jonah’s lip and he flicks his tongue out to catch it, tasting a cool echo of salt and bitterness.

Barnabas shifts out from underneath him, laying his head on the floor and moving aside. Jonah brings his hands up to his chest and sweeps his fingers through the pool of wetness there, the cool slide of it soothing against his flushed skin. Jonah turns his head to see Mordechai staring down at him appraisingly, hand lazily working his still hard cock. Jonah brings two fingers, shining and wet, to his lips and darts his tongue out, dragging them through the slick fluid and gathering it on his tongue. He makes heated eye contact with Mordechai and licks his lips slowly, smearing the come across them. Mordechai hisses, hand squeezing around his length, and Jonah sucks the fingers into his mouth, smirking.

“Need something in your mouth, do you?” Jonathan asks, and Jonah twists around to watch him turn and step away, bending down to grab something he can’t see. Barnabas grips Jonah’s hips and slides them into his lap, wrapping Jonah’s legs around his waist. He runs his hands across Jonah’s hips and down over the heated flesh between his thighs, pushing three fingers inside in one smooth motion. Jonah’s fingers drop from his mouth and he cries out, eyes fluttering at the exquisite burn of the stretch.

“Still tight for me,” Barnabas says with a twist of his fingers, and Jonah arches his back to tilt his hips against Barnabas’ hand. Through lidded eyes, he watches Mordechai sink to his knees next to him, stroking himself and watching as Barnabas withdraws his fingers, now coated in in the mingling of slick and come. Jonah leans forward, trying to get his mouth on Mordechai, but is stopped by a hand gripping his hair and yanking him back.

“Oh no,” Jonathan says, pulling Jonah’s head back towards him, “ _I_ get that mouth of yours.” He releases his hair and kneels by his shoulders, cock bobbing above Jonah’s face. He brings his hand forward, dangling the discarded silk cravat before him, and Jonah’s eyes widen. He wonders if Jonathan means to tie him up, and the thought of having so little control shoots a tendril of delicious fear down his spine. Jonah shivers in anticipation.

“On your elbows,” Jonathan commands, and Jonah complies, sitting up slightly and shrugging out of the ruins of his shirt and vest. He yelps as Barnabas slides cold fingers down to his ass, rubbing insistently at his hole, slicking it up. And then Jonathan leans forward and wraps the cravat around his neck, pulling it tight.

Jonah gasps in a startled breath, and Jonathan uses the opportunity to shove his cock into his mouth, cutting off even the thin trickle of air he managed to pull in. He doesn’t give Jonah any time to adjust, fucking ruthlessly into his throat, grinding his pelvis against Jonah’s face with each thrust. Just as Jonah’s vision tunnels, fading almost completely to black, Jonathan pulls out of his mouth and loosens his grip on the cravat just enough for Jonah to cough and suck in great, heaving gasps of air.

Jonah flinches as Jonathan slaps his cock wetly against Jonah’s cheek, painting it with spit and precome, before shoving back inside. Jonah shudders as Barnabas’ fingers finally breach him, one and then another, spreading him open. His arms shake as Jonathan fucks his mouth, struggling to hold himself up as Jonathan’s cock pushes against the back of his throat. Jonathan groans as Jonah’s throat convulses around him and then tightens the cravat once again.

Mordechai thrusts forward to rub his cock through the mess on Jonah’s belly, and his strained groan reverberates through Jonah’s chest. Barnabas slips another finger inside him, stretches them wide, and Jonah is dizzy, his world narrowing to points of pressure, pleasure, and pain. He only vaguely hears Jonathan begin to speak again.

“This truly was the only way to ever shut you up,” Jonathan says, letting the cravat go slack once again, forcing Jonah to struggle to breathe around the thrust of his cock. Tears start to spill from his eyes, mingling with the drool and come dripping down his cheeks and chin. “Not even fucking you worked—you would still go on and on.” He tightens the cravat again but stills, leaving his cock heavy on Jonah’s tongue. “No, you always did need something more, something to make it so you couldn’t speak if you tried.”

Jonah breathes shallowly, carefully through his nose and, feeling petulant, wriggles his tongue under the head of Jonathan’s cock. Jonathan hisses out a breath and Jonah hums smugly, hollowing his cheeks as he begins to suck in earnest.

Next to him, Mordechai’s thrusts become unsteady and his breathing ragged as he drags his cock over Jonah’s belly. The muscles in Jonah’s abdomen jump at the cold spread of Mordechai’s come, his cock twitching and spurting against his stomach until Jonah is covered. He feels rivulets of the fluid drip down over his sides to pool on the floor. 

Without warning, Barnabas quickly withdraws his fingers, and Jonah whines against the feeling of emptiness. Barnabas laughs and strokes his thigh. “Don’t worry,” Barnabas assures him, “we’ll fill you right up again.”

Jonathan pulls back from his mouth with a slick pop and releases his grip on the cravat, allowing Jonah to draw in burning lungfuls of chill air. He yelps as Mordechai grabs him by the hips, dragging him backwards until his back is flush against Mordechai’s chest.

“You cannot be serious?” Jonah asks incredulously, feeling the insistent poke of Mordechai’s _still_ hard cock against his lower back. Mordechai laughs in response and merely slides his hands under his thighs, lifting him with seemingly little effort. Barnabas shifts forward on his knees, grabbing Jonah’s arms and wrapping them around his neck. His cock glides up through the slick folds of Jonah’s slit, dragging against Jonah’s cock and ripping a whimper from him.

Jonah squirms, Mordechai hard and insistent at his back, fingers bruising where they grip his thighs, and Barnabas soft and yielding at his front, nose nuzzling into the crook of his jaw. Jonah holds his breath as he’s lowered, Barnabas leaning forward to brace their cocks as Mordechai sinks Jonah onto them. Jonah cries out at the first slick press against his holes, involuntarily clenching against the maddening, aching stretch of the cocks breaching him.

It is _exquisite_ torture.

Each inch he takes feels like more than he can bear, even as he longs for more and more. He pitches forward and buries his face into Barnabas’ chest, fingers digging into his shoulders, panting at the inexorable slide of the two cocks inside him. Mordechai lowers him slowly but surely, not rushing him along but not giving him any time to properly adjust. Jonah shakes his head minutely against Barnabas, mewling at the feeling of sweet, agonizing fullness. Barnabas shushes him and brings his hand up to where they’re joined, rubbing deft fingers briefly around where Jonah is stretched wide over his cock.

When they finally, _finally_ bottom out—just when Jonah thinks he can take no more—Mordechai hefts him up and slams him back down swiftly with a mortifyingly wet squelch. The force of the movement buries the cocks deep inside him, so achingly, overwhelmingly deep, and a startled yelp is wrenched from his throat. Mordechai takes no mercy on him, wastes no time in setting a hard, fast pace, bouncing Jonah on his and Barnabas’ cocks as if he were merely a toy to be used. Jonah feels split open, swears that each thrust up will be the one that undoes him, the one that rends him in two.

Jonah lifts his head and looks through Barnabas to the mirror. He sees himself in profile, suspended between the broad muscle of Mordechai and the softer curves of Barnabas. He looks absolutely debauched, held open between them, and what skin he can see glimmers and shines from Jonathan and Mordechai’s come. He lowers his gaze, eyes on where Mordechai and Barnabas pump in and out of him in tandem, watching as his slick drips down around Barnabas’ cock. Overwhelmed, Jonah slumps backward, leaning heavily against Mordechai’s chest, head lolling and mouth open, panting.

Jonah draws one arm back from Barnabas’ shoulders and slides a hand clumsily down between his legs. Before he can even brush his fingertips against his cock, Barnabas reaches out and grabs his hands, tugging them away until Jonah topples forward against his chest. He tries to pull his hands free but Barnabas holds tight, giving him no chance to slip free. Jonah wails and wriggles, struggling uselessly against the iron grip.

“Please, Barnabas,” Jonah sobs into his neck. “ _Please_ touch me.”

“Haven’t I given you enough?” Barnabas replies coolly, his fingers tightening painfully around Jonah’s wrists. Mordechai chuckles, a low rumble against Jonah’s back as he thrusts up inside him.

“Full up and still so _greedy_ ,” Jonathan says, gripping Jonah firmly by the jaw to turn his head towards him. Jonah blinks up at him, lashes clinging together wetly with tears. “Luckily for you, I haven’t quite yet had my fill.” Jonathan pushes forward, rubbing his cock against Jonah’s lips until he opens his mouth.

Strung up between the three men, Jonah is uselessly, helplessly caught in his own arousal with no relief. He moans piteously, the sound muffled by the hard length in his mouth, jostled by the unrelenting push of the two thick cocks inside him. He wriggles, trying to grind his grind his own cock against Barnabas’ pelvis—anything to get some relief—but Mordechai grips his thighs tighter until Jonah can no longer move at all.

“All of your sweet little holes filled, and still you beg,” Jonathan taunts, lifting his free hand to run his fingers over the stretch of Jonah’s mouth around him. “Is this not enough for you, Jonah? Do you still _need_ more?” Jonah whimpers in pain as Jonathan forces two fingers in beside his cock, stretching Jonah’s lips as wide as they’ll go. More drool dribbles from his mouth as the fingers push against the inside of his cheek, and he can’t stop the tears that slip from his eyes, adding to the mess on his face.

“You’re lucky you’re getting this much,” Jonathan hisses. His hips snap viciously, a bruising force against Jonah’s face as he struggles to breathe through his nose. Mordechai speeds up, pounding into Jonah quicker and harder, and Barnabas leans down to nip at Jonah’s jaw. Jonah wails uselessly, and the tears begin to flow freely down his face.

Jonathan’s thrusts begin to grow sloppy and less coordinated until he finally slips from Jonah’s mouth with a groan. He removes his hand from Jonah’s jaw to work his cock, and the fingers in Jonah’s mouth hook against the side of his lips, keeping his mouth open wide as he strokes himself to completion. The first spurt splashes across Jonah’s lips, coating his tongue in the insubstantially bitter taste of his come. The second streaks in an arc over Jonah’s face, hitting him across the jaw and the bridge of his nose. Jonathan leans forward then, shaking and panting, pushing the head of his cock against Jonah’s cheek, and the last of his come dribbles out and drips down to Jonah’s chin. Jonathan lets go of him and, wobbly and unable to hold himself up, Jonah falls back heavily against Mordechai’s chest. Jonah licks his lips with a sigh, and his eyes flutter shut as he gives himself over to the sweet, overwhelming ache between his thighs.

He’s jolted back into the moment by a cold touch against his jaw. He shivers and cracks his eyes open to see Jonathan gone and Barnabas leaning forward, clutching him close with one arm, the other raised up to stroke his cheek with painful tenderness. Barnabas presses two slick fingers gently against his lips, and Jonah opens up obediently, laving his tongue over them fervently. He moans, voice rasping and rough, as Mordechai bucks wildly behind him, pushing in deep and grinding desperately against him as he comes. Jonah shivers through Mordechai’s orgasm, the cold that fills him a contrast to the the warm, buzzy feeling in his head and chest.

He feels Mordechai shift behind him, and Barnabas withdraws the fingers from his mouth to slide both hands under his ass, keeping him supported as Mordechai drops him and moves away. Barnabas wraps Jonah’s legs around his waist and stands, striding across the room still buried inside him. With each step, his cock pushes deeper and Jonah keens, clenching down and feeling Mordechai’s come leak from his empty hole.

Barnabas sets Jonah on the desk, pushing at his shoulders until Jonah lays back, spread out under Barnabas’ gaze. Barnabas fits his hands against Jonah’s hips, pulling him flush against his lap. His movements are slow, languid, and this, out of anything Jonah has felt tonight, is true agony. Jonah uses his legs wrapped around Barnabas’ waist to pull him in faster, harder, but Barnabas holds Jonah’s hips tighter and maintains his pace, gentle and unhurried, pulling out of Jonah almost fully before sliding back in, slow and long.

“Lukas leaving me there I can understand,” Barnabas says softly, tenderly, sliding one hand up Jonah’s quivering belly. “It wasn’t personal—it was business. But you, Jonah.” Barnabas rests his hand over Jonah’s heart, its gentle press like a lead weight. “I begged for you. And you left me to rot.”

Jonah cries out and arches his back, trying to push down against Barnabas, to get more friction. Barnabas continues, gentle as before.

“If only you could know the way it felt to be left there,” he whispers. Jonah knows. He knew then, fingers running over inked words on parchment, and he knows now, Barnabas’ hips pressed into his.

“If only you could have felt the hollow ache in my chest and the way that it grew and grew until it consumed me.” Jonah can feel it, the yawning chasm and the way it tries to swallow him whole, and he desperately tries to fill it, pulling Barnabas closer by the hips.

“Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you. Only you. And so even sleep was taken from me, and there was nothing left to bring me peace.” Jonah squeezes his eyes shut against the torturous rapture of Seeing and it’s all too much and still not enough and—

“And once I finally found it—in the end, in death,” Barnabas’ hips still and Jonah cries out, flooded with the chill, frozen to the core. “You came and took even that from me.” Barnabas leans forward, pressing his cold chest to Jonah’s, lips barely brushing his. “I have nothing left to give you.”

And then Jonah is alone.

He opens his eyes slowly, blinking away the unshed tears as he stares up at the ceiling for a moment and catches his breath. He huffs out a laugh, high and thready, and raises his hands to his chest, sliding one slowly over the curve of his ribcage and down towards his hip bone, smearing the mess across his stomach. He turns his head, and upon catching sight of himself in the mirror, sucks in a sharp breath through his nose.

He is _incandescent_.

The ropes of come across his body catch the pale light of the moon, splashing silver across his cheekbones and lips, clinging like tiny diamonds from the tips of his hair. His entire body shines, as if he were encased in gossamer threads, wrapped up in fine chains of silver. He slips his hand lower to feel the sticky mess between his legs and he hisses as his fingers skate over his aching cock. He arches his back, and the angle shows off his neck, revealing fingertip bruises around his throat like a collar of black pearls.

He is _resplendent_.

He props himself up on one elbow, spreading his legs wide to watch the come dribble out, pooling onto the desk below him. He slides his fingers through the slick between his thighs and shudders, euphoric, running the fluid carefully through his fingers as though it were precious, as though it were the answer—quicksilver, _prima materia_ , the catalyst of his becoming, spread over the raw shape of his body, transmuting him into gold, into _right_ , into _glorious_.

Breathless and panting into the dark of the room, he feels the weight of a thousand eyes upon him, their stare heady and tingling against his skin. Eyes fixed on his reflection, he presses his hand against his cock, jutting out from between his swollen lips. He feels the eyes on him, hot like a brand, as he works his fingers in slick circles over himself, legs shifting open wider to better see. His thighs begin to shake as the pleasure mounts inside him, eyes raking over the slick pink of his slit, the jump of his belly as his hips twitch up into his hand, the slide of translucent silver come down his chest. He raises his gaze up over his heaving chest, his parted red lips, his wide, bright eyes.

And there, atop his head, sits a spectral crown of eyes, burned into his vision like an afterimage, horrifying and magnificent. Each of the eyes stares down at him, into him, and he is flayed open under their intensity, Seen and Known. He gasps, bucking up against his hand as he shudders apart, cock twitching under his fingers, looking into the eyes of his reflection.

His arm gives out and he falls back against the desk, gasping and panting against the aftershocks. He lays there, trembling, staring unfocused at the ceiling, as he comes back to himself. After a long minute, he smiles and lets his eyes fall shut.

In the darkness behind them he still sees the crown.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's the art! Credit goes to chuckee cheese, the insufferable ratbag.


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